


Ignite (Redux)

by DearLazerBunny



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, More tags to be added, Severe Burn Injuries, injured reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22106977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearLazerBunny/pseuds/DearLazerBunny
Summary: After an accident above Starkiller Base, someone unexpected proves invaluable helpThis is a rewrite of Ignite, which I posted two-ish years ago. I thought I could do more with it than I did initially, and soon enough this first chapter was longer than the whole original story. Same story, greatly expanded upon. Enjoy!
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 22
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

You sigh as you scroll through your daily schedule that’s pinged into your datapad. Apparently a fresh crop of newbie engineers has been recruited, and now you’ve got to teach them how to not blow themselves up- or more crucially, not blow up the expensive TIE Fighters that cost more than your entire life is worth. Joy oh joy. Really, you prefer to work alone- you’re a senior engineer aboard Starkiller base, you don’t need anyone to double check your work (or worse, mucking it up). But as long as the rookie knows their place and doesn’t cross wires they aren’t supposed to, things should- _should-_ be okay.

Hopefully. Maybe. Fingers crossed.

You pull on your uniform, doing up the buttons and fastening the buckles; your tool belt, a beautiful piece of leather that’s been worn enough to be molded precisely to your waist, gets secured in its place of honor across your hips. After tracking down your pesky gloves and tucking them into the top of your work boots so you don’t lose them for the millionth time, you join the ebb and flow of traffic constantly racing though Starkiller’s veins and head for the flight deck.

It’s a decent trek- base is huge, and nowhere you’re heading is ever anywhere near everywhere else. It’s become something of a tradition to mentally curse whoever designed this bucket of bolts as you follow hallway after hallway, trying to keep pace with those around you. Would it have killed them to put in some moving walkways? Maybe a more direct path through the ducts? At least that way you’d be able to avoid all the upper-crust officers on your way to work, and their holier-than-thou stares as they eye your patched elbows and stained pants. Chuckling to yourself, you pat the nearest metal archway, mentally apologizing to your pride and joy. Starkiller is, ultimately, a feat of engineering, and the fact that you get to crawl around in her walls and find what makes her tic is a pleasure, no matter how finicky she gets- or how snotty the officers become.

In the corner of your eye, you can tell that the corridor has suddenly emptied, startlingly silent of stormtrooper boots or the quiet mumbling of messengers running to and fro. Rather than following suit and making yourself scarce, you purposefully slow your gait and linger, letting your fingers trace along the seams of the polished walls.

Not a minute later, Kylo Ren comes stalking around the corner, boots thumping menacingly along his path and cape fluttering behind him. He doesn’t seem phased by the sudden clearing of his path- he probably comes to expect it by now. It’s not like he demands it; people just seem too frightened of the Commander to even do something as simple as walk in the same corridor as him.

You can’t _really_ blame them. He’s a six-foot-something space wizard in all black and an incredibly intimidating mask. Rumor has it he isn’t afraid to cut you in half with a lightsaber if you so much as breathe wrong in his direction- and to be fair, a lot of those rumors are true, given how frequently you’re called to patch up medical equipment in the infirmary.

“Am I interrupting something?” The Commander’s voice comes out heavily synthesized through his visor, but you could swear there’s a touch of teasing in it as he watches you run a hand over some welding.

You grin at him. “No, sir, just having a little moment of appreciation.” You comically pat the metal next to you, as though assessing a prize cow.

Normally you wouldn’t dare joke around with a senior officer, but despite his fearful reputation, the Knight has always seemed… different, to you. In command, yes, but not quite part of command. The rest of base always runs whenever he heads in their direction. Even his infamous Knights of Ren seem just a touch too cautious around their leader to include him in the camaraderie you’ve seen them demonstrate in the mess hall when he’s not around. He’s a true loner, sitting solitaire in meetings and speaking to no one except to yell orders; a black phantom haunting the hallways with rumors flying left and right in his wake.

You made the decision a long time ago to not be afraid of the man. He has to know that not everyone sees him as some sort of grim reaper, no matter what people might whisper. “How are you today, sir?”

Despite you making it a point to ask him this every time you see him, he still seems taken aback whenever he hears it. Like he’s shocked someone is speaking to him in pleasant terms. “I am fine. And you?”

“Just peachy!” You gesture down the hallway. “Are you going this way?”

He nods briefly, and so the two of you start off together, only close enough to barely be associated as acquaintances. The stares you get are numerous, but you always feel just a tad more confident with the Commander at your side. You suppose it must look a bit comical- the dark knight and a tiny engineer marching through base like they own the place. But you’re grateful for the company, silent as it is, and you tell yourself he must be too- otherwise, why give you the time of day? You’re not anyone important.

You know Commandeer Ren notices all the attention the two of you get- you can tell by the way he has to keep his fists from clenching up; struggle to keep his gait even. Briefly, you wonder if the reason he wears a mask is so his emotions won’t run amok across his face. It’s certainly easy enough to read the rest of him, if you bother looking.

“Are you not afraid of me?”

You stop short, surprised. Even when he seems to be in a good mood, he rarely says anything. “No sir, I’m not. Should I be?”

“Yes,” he says flatly. Just, _yes,_ as though that’s the only possible answer to his question.

“Well… just don’t come at me with your fancy glowstick, and I think we’ll be alright, yeah?” You offer him an easy grin, instinctively reaching out to tap him playfully on the shoulder before you remember who you’re talking to- it quickly gets withdrawn. He simply stares at you, and you’re unsure if you’ve just doomed yourself to a cold and miserable fate on Hoth. “I’ll see you later?”

He just turns and stalks away, and you sigh, shoving your hands in your pockets. He never answers that one. Which, to be fair, he probably has much more important things to do than run around entertaining some random engineer. Still, he never blows you off though, even when you’re rambling or asking too many questions- he might not _answer_ the questions, but he doesn’t tell you to shut up either.

Truth is, you’re a bit fascinated with the man. He’s an enigma, a mystery, and your whole life you’ve been trained to solve mysteries; pull out the broken pieces and wind it all back together again even better than the day it was brand new. You can only hope someday that helmet of his will short circuit and you’ll get a chance to take a crack at it.

You have to pull yourself away from watching Ren’s retreating back, refocusing on your job. Rookie to train. TIE Fighters to tune up. Right.

It’s pretty easy to spot your trainee- he’s tentatively poking around a TIE the way you do when you want to look like you know what you’re doing, but in actuality you’re three seconds away from seriously messing something up. When he gnaws his lip and reaches for a panel of circuitry, you step in- “OKAY! Let’s back away from that, shall we?”

Startled, he knocks himself away from the board he’s studying. “Right! Right. Uh, sorry.”

You gingerly close the panel back up and push him a few steps away from the battleship, then wipe your hands on your pants and hold out a hand. “I’m Y/N. I’ll be your supervisor for the day. Rule number one? Don’t touch anything unless you know for certain what it is, what’s wrong with it, how to fix it, and all the ways it can kill you if your finger slips.”

The kid’s cheeks pale a bit. “Right. I’m Cale.”

“Wonderful. Don’t blow anybody up and don’t put our heads under the general’s fist, and I’m sure we’ll get along great.” You tug on your gloves, tighten the cord securing your hair, and put a hand on your hip. “First thing’s first- how much do you know about twin ion engine ships?”

You spend the better part of your shift going over every inch of the craft in front of you, as well as the science that makes it run and the parts that need hands on them more often than not. “…and this is the engine itself. It destabilizes xenon gas and uses the resulting broken-off electron for thrust. Xenon gas is ideal because for the most part, it’s completely inert- fireproof, explosion-proof, etcetera. As long as it’s converted back to a stable state before it’s exuded by the engine, it’s pretty safe. But you should still be extremely cautious when working on the engine itself. Obviously. It’s worth more than we ever will be.” You press your wrist to your forehead, trying to think of anything you missed. “Okay. Any questions?”

“…No?”

“Cool.” You check your datapad. “This one needs new electrostatic grids. Xenon gas is fairly corrosive. Check with me before you do anything, and we’ll get to work, okay?”

Other than the occasional question here and there and getting used to someone hanging over your shoulder watching you tinker, you settle into a wonderfully familiar routine. Your fingers fly like they have a mind of their own, effortlessly making the rig in front of you shine like it did when it first came off the line.

“-so what do you do here, anyways?”

You shake your head, pulled from the flow of work- “um, little bit of everything? I got promoted to senior a few years ago so I’m called all over base. I work a lot with command and their personal rigs and equipment.”

You can’t see Cale’s face, but you can hear the curiosity in his voice. “You work with General Hux?”

“Yes. He’s just as…intense, as everyone makes him out to be. But thus far I’m not on his bad side and I plan to keep it that way, so I’m not saying anything else about it.”

“What about-” he pauses, like he’s looking over his shoulder to make sure no one else in the massively busy hangar is listening in- “Kylo Ren?”

You wedge a particularly tight support into place with a grunt. “What about him?”

“Is he really insane? I heard that-”

“No,” you say harshly. “And you shouldn’t believe everything you hear. He’s a person, just like everyone else, okay?” Christ, the rumor mill is as exhausting as it is useless.

Thankfully, something on your tool belt starts beeping and you can focus on that. A little indicator light is flashing orange, harsh and neon. “Interesting.”

Cale pops his head out from underneath the ship. “What’s beeping?”

“This monitors the air quality; lets us know if the composition of gases gets unbalanced. It generally means there’s a leak somewhere.” You glance at what you’d doing. More electrostatic grids. “What are you working on down there?”

“Oh, a few tanks were too pressurized, so I released the valves a bit to relieve those.”

You blanch. “The xenon canisters?”

“Um… maybe?”

 _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._ Just before you can hit the alarm button, you see a spark from a nearby welder flicker- it arcs to the floor almost in slow motion, one small bit of fire promising catastrophe. If you’re lucky, it won’t catch- it will fall harmlessly to the floor and extinguish, giving you time to alert others, clear the area, and reset things when proper ventilation has made the area safe.

But when have you ever been lucky?

All you see is red. You’re awash in it, swimming in it, drowning until your whole being is nothing but scarlet and an unholy, white-hot, supernova blue. You’re in the heart of an exploding star, witnessing the birth of the universe, and it’s just as beautiful as you’d imagine the very atoms of space rearranging themselves would be.

Then there’s stillness. The colors fade. It’s not silent- no, there’s a ringing in your ears, and somewhere very, very far away something like an alarm. And then- pain.

Oh, the pain. It flashes through your nerves like lightning, so intense you almost can’t comprehend all the little nuances screaming across every inch of your body. Joining the ringing and the far, distant sound of klaxon alarms comes a high-pitched, desperate sort of scream. You turn to help whoever it is- you raise a hand in front of you, only to see rapidly singing flesh. It’s you. You’re the one screaming. You’re the one _on fire._

Sprawled on the floor of the hangar, vaguely aware of everything and nothing, hoarsely begging for this to _stop, stopstopstop please make this stop_ , you wonder just for one second if the tall cloaked figure at the other end of the room is a hallucination or wish fulfillment or both.

You lose consciousness before you can come to a decision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an accident above Starkiller Base, someone unexpected proves invaluable help
> 
> This is a rewrite of Ignite, which I posted two-ish years ago. I thought I could do more with it than I did initially, and soon enough this first chapter was longer than the whole original story. Same story, greatly expanded upon. Enjoy!

You don’t remember much after that, other than a slew of strange fever dreams punctuated by sharp flares of agony. Occasionally something like lucidity will break through, and you can catalogue the clean whiteness of the medical wing with lazy eyes. Nurses bustle in and out- fiddling with machines, pushing syringes of clear liquid into the crook of your arm, wrapping and rewrapping bandages around your body.

Strangest of all is the man in black who visits you like clockwork. He’s in contrast to the soft nurses- all dark folds and sharp angles. He sits at your side like a statue, murmuring things you can’t understand but are soothing nonetheless. Everything hurts a little less, when he’s there. But he’s always gone too soon.

In the back of your mind, you know that things are… bad. The alarm bells in your chest are muted immensely by whatever drugs they’re pumping you full of, but are still very much alive and well. You’re not sure if you can say the same about the rest of you- you can barely wiggle your fingers, and everything is very, very heavy.

You let your eyelids slip closed, and decide to sort it out later.

But eventually, in excruciatingly slow form, you do emerge from your haze. The bleached sheets beneath you solidify into something tangible, the nurses’ faces sharpen into recognizable features. There’s more light than dark, and further stretches of consciousness between blinks and breaths.

“Are you awake, then?”

Lazily, your head tilts to the side and your eyes focus on the doctor standing next to you. “I… think so?” Your tongue is thick in your mouth, making your words thud onto the floor like clay.

The doctor makes a noncommittal noise and checks a bag hanging on a pole next to you. “Can you state your name? Where you are; your occupation?”

“Y/N Y/L/N. Engineering. On Starkiller base, First Order. What- what happened?”

Before answering, he shines a penlight into your eyes, leaving bright spots in your field of vision. “There was an accident,” he says gently.

An accident. With fire. And pain. So much pain. You can feel it now, as the vestiges of drugs slowly disappear- a white hot burn, dry as a desert planet. “Oh.”

“It’s been about two weeks. We kept you under to give you the best chance at healing. There- there will be some scarring, though we tried to minimize that as best we could.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait. What about newbie- Cole? Cale. Cale. Is he- did he-?”

Though he keeps his face neutral, you can see the grimace in his eyes. “He’s still in critical condition.”

Shit. You let yourself sink back into the thin pillows and crunchy mattress, almost wishing you were still unconscious so you wouldn’t have to deal with the ache in your chest. “So… what now?”

“You’ll be on medical leave for a good while-” Oh, Hux is not going to like _that-_ “but we want you back in your own environment as quickly as possible. We’ll provide you with a schedule of physical therapy.”

Home is good- your bunk is more comfortable than this bed, and being surrounded by your friends will make everything easier to bear. You try to ignore the feeling of uselessness beginning to settle into your bones. You work, you’re a worker- always have been. What happens when you can’t do your job? Are you even worth anything anymore?

“Oh, um, doctor-” you stop him on his way out the door. “Did anyone come visit me?”

“Mmm, yes. Quite a few here and there.” He hands you a list of names and something warms in your chest to see the names of just about everyone in senior engineering; even some people you’ve trained and have gone on to bigger things. But you know these people, and none of them are tall and pale and shrouded in dark like the man visiting you in your dreams. Maybe he’s just that- a dream. A figment of your imagination to make you a little less lonely. Hallucination is also very likely, given the probably astounding amount of drugs you’ve been given. Hell, with that black cloak- you might’ve been visiting with the grim reaper for all you know.

None of those explanations sit quite right with you- it’s on the tip of your tongue, but your tongue isn’t working very well right now, so. Perhaps that’s a mystery best solved later. “So, when can I get out of here?”

“We’ll continue to monitor you for the next few days as the medicine wears off; see how your appetite and energy returns. We’ll also need to assess your physical state, and you’ll need to learn how to care for your bandages.”

“Right.” You flex your fingers slowly, now seeing the difficulty lies in moving the thick white cotton that’s been wrapped around your knuckles. “Will I-?” You pause. Take a breath. “I’m going to be okay. Am I going to be okay?”

Something like compassion flashes over the man’s face, and his eyes soften. “The burns were extensive. Nerve damage is likely, but we won’t be able to tell how much until you’re up and moving again. Later down the line you might consider skin grafts to manage the cosmetic side of things. We’ve salvaged as much tissue as we can, but- well. Medicine is as much of an art as it is a science. There’s never any guarantees.”

 _Extensive. Nerve damage. Skin grafts._ As you take in his words, you let your hand wander up to the plasters covering your neck, just creeping up the side of your jawbone and onto your cheek. And for the first time, you think to yourself, _stars, I must look hideous. “_ Well, I never wanted to be a beauty queen anyways,” you mumble, trying to cover your nervousness at the sudden realization that you don’t even know what you look like anymore.

“It will be an adjustment. But medical technology has come a long way. You’ll be much better off now than you would have been even a few years ago.”

“Thanks.” He nods. “Um, if I’m going to be here for a while- can you tell me if Cale wakes up?”

The doctor sighs. “He… wasn’t quite as lucky as you. But yes, I will keep you updated as much as I am allowed.”

When he leaves, and you’re alone again with only your thoughts and the soft chugging of an IV pump to your left, you find you can’t keep yourself from picking restlessly at the loose edges of your bandages- even as you fall back into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an accident above Starkiller Base, someone unexpected proves invaluable help
> 
> This is a rewrite of Ignite, which I posted two-ish years ago. I thought I could do more with it than I did initially, and soon enough this first chapter was longer than the whole original story. Same story, greatly expanded upon. Enjoy!

_Burning. Scorching. Writhing. You’re a wraith consumed by flames, ashes decorating your body like the tattoos of ancient tribes on planets unknown. You rise, and something screams- you don’t know what, but it sounds melodic and desperate and something like fear_

You heave yourself awake, hands clenched around your blankets like you might rip the fabric to shreds. Every deep breath tugs at the bandages wrapping your chest and torso; the discomfort of the wounds compounded by restriction and sweat and heat. Two weeks have passed since your release from medical; despite swallowing pills by the bottleful, bathing in thick creams that do nothing to quench the dry scorch rolling though your body, and daily trips to medbay, nothing seems to be getting better. If anything, they’re getting worse.

The pain is constant, even in your sleep. Your joints feel as though they’re made of stone. Comfort is a thing of the past. You haven’t worked up the courage to tend to your bandages yourself, so you had yourself to the nurses on the daily and have them do it for you. Their hands are much more careful than yours would be, and their faces mercifully impassive. They can look at you with a neutrality that you can’t muster even after an hour of staring in the mirror.

You wonder if you’ll ever get used to this new body. This new you. The alien you.

The crackling of the comm above your bunk startles you out of your half-lucid thoughts, sending sparks through your nerves. Do you answer? You know you’ve been marked in the system as on medical leave- no one’s let you so much as pick up a wrench or get within ten feet of a circuitry panel. It’s maddening, but secretly you don’t know if your wrecked hands would even be capable of the dexterity your job requires. “This is Y/L/N. Go ahead.” You try to keep the strain out of your voice.

“Y/N Y/L/N has been requested, effectively immediately.”

“Request to defer.” You’re exhausted, in pain, and due for yet another round of medication in- you glance at the clock- under an hour. Normally you’d never defer a request- if a senior mechanic is being called upon, something is seriously wrong- but currently it doesn’t look as though you’ll be able to put on a proper shirt, much less service whatever’s fallen apart. The doctor said you’re on one of their do-not-call lists, so this is probably just a mistake…?

“Negative. Y/N Y/L/N was requested specifically; medical override. Your presence is required as soon as possible.”

 _Motherfucking bantha shit-_ “Message received. Please stand by.”

Okay. How are you going to do this?

Putting on actual pants is a no; you can’t do up the buttons or zippers. Your hair stays in a messy ponytail only barely kept out of your eyes. A plain tank hugs your body and separates the bandages wrapping your back from the rest of the world, but does nothing to hide the bulkiness of the gauze- you grab a shirt you borrowed from your friend who’s at least three sizes bigger than you. It’s roomy enough to slide over your hips so you can avoid raising your shoulders, and though it hangs off you like a tunic, it ensures there’s nothing to rub against irritated skin.

 _One, two, three-_ you grit your teeth as your heels hit the floor, sending a jarring jolt all the way up your spine. Your nerves burn, your cheeks flush. Shoes, shoes… yeah, that’s a hopeless case. Eventually you just slide your feet into them and tuck the loose laces into the side.

You grab your tool belt, wincing slightly at its weight, and belt it at the loosest possible loop so it hangs precariously off your hips and avoids your lower back. You look a right mess, and no respectable First Order officer would ever go out looking how you do now- but if someone on their high horse is going to call you off of goddamn medical leave, then they’ll take what they’re gonna get.

You can practically feel the pity radiating off the troopers who were sent to fetch you. Their masks are expressionless, but you can see the one to the left tilt his head a bit as he takes in you and all your patheticness. “Lead the way,” you say gruffly, not in the mood for questions or anything even remotely resembling sympathy.

They start out at a pace that would make you hustle on the best of days; now, it’s basically impossible to keep up. Your bruised pride won’t let you speak up and tell them to slow the hell down, so they only notice you’re not right behind them once they’re three corridors away. They double back and find you with a grimace contorted across your face, trying desperately not to look as frustrated as you feel. You amble behind them as best you can- it isn’t agony, yet, but the pain is slowly ratcheting up in increments with every step you take, and you really just want whatever goose chase this is to be over with so you can go back to silently screaming into your pillow.

It’s early, so thought the base never sleeps there, are at least slightly fewer people walking by to stare at you. Gradually, you recognize the sector your escorts are shuffling you towards- command’s private quarters. Figures. Only command would have a high enough clearance to override medical leave, and also they’re big enough dicks to not care enough in the first place. You probably got dragged out of your bunk just to tell someone to turn their datapad off and on again, never mind the fact that that is _not_ your department and someone in goddamn _command_ should be able to figure that out for _themselves_ \- the thought practically makes you livid, and gives you enough strength to go up to the door you’re dropped in off at and bang your fist against the metal. “Engineering!”

Your voice echoes through the empty hallway and prompts absolutely no response from said door in front of you. _Shit,_ that hurt. You put pressure onto the side of your fist with your other hand, tears nearly springing to your eyes. “Engineering!” _I did not drag my ass out of bed in enough pain to make Captain Phasma take a day off for you to not be home!_ “Hello?”

Miraculously, the door finally retracts and grants you entrance to a room entirely shrouded in dark. There’s no one there to greet you. Cautiously, you take a few steps inside, letting your fingers trail against the wall beside you to give you some sense of direction. “Um. Hello? You requested Y/N Y/L/N from engineering?” Your eyes adjust with the help of starlight streaming through an unshaded port. It’s huge- large enough to be installed on one of the observation decks rather than personal quarters- and gives you an impressive view of the atmosphere beyond. You aren’t sure if it’s comforting or unsettling.

The room itself is almost bare- no décor or knickknacks or personal items, just a single bed centered on the far wall. Someone- or something- is curled up amongst its sheets, shifting almost imperceptibly here and there. “Hello? Sir? Or- ma’am? You requested me?”

“Yes.”

Sir, then. His voice is so low and hoarse you can barely understand him. Briefly, you wonder if you should ask if he’s okay, or if you should call medical- then you realize _you’re_ the one who should be going to medical right about now, and _he’s_ the one who couldn’t call anyone else to fix his problem, and then you get impatient again. “Do you have something that needs to be fixed, then?”

All at once, the man sits up, dark eyes glinting and hands frantically combing through unruly hair. “You.”

That’s… not what you were expecting. Even though you can’t hardly make out his features, you can feel the intensity of his gaze practically burning through you. In other circumstances, you’d try to be a little more polite to someone who so obviously outranks you, but in your current state all you manage is an unintelligent “…huh?”

“You. _You_ need to be fixed- how can you _stand_ it, it feels like I’m dying and it doesn’t _stop-”_ his rant propels him forwards just a bit, enough to where you can begin to see his face: angular, sharp nose and jawline, cheekbones that practically reflect the light. His eyes are haunted and exhausted, pleading with you to give him answers when you don’t even know what the question is.

“I’m sorry? I- I don’t understand. Do you need medical?”

He puts a careful hand on his chest, near the intersection of his shoulder- right where one particular hotspot is causing you a tricky amount of pain. “I can hear you- screaming in your sleep. I can _feel_ it.”

_What the fuck?_

“I’m in your head, and I can’t. Get. Out.” He grits his teeth and presses his fingers to his temple, like he’s trying to keep his skull from splitting apart. Your heartbeat quickens, unsure what sort of madman’s ravings you’ve just walked into. You start to back towards the exit. “You’re crying, even now. The bandages are suffocating you.”

And that stops you. Because they _are_ suffocating you- they feel like a vice wrapped around your middle, constantly limiting your air as though you’re caught in a downpour. Something in this man’s voice- how desperate it is, how it sounds like he’s a frayed rope about to snap- makes you unequivocally believe that what you’re feeling right now; _he_ feels it too.

But how the hell is that even possible? “I’m sorry, do I- know you?”

There’s a huff in the dark. “You don’t recognize me. Of course you don’t. How could you?” Another sharp flare of pain rolls through you, and as you wince the man groans in unison. He stands, restless, throwing aside already rumpled sheets. He’s been awake for a while. Silhouetted in the light, towering over you even in plain sleep clothes, you catch a glimpse of something in your mind’s eye- the man in front of you, but draped in a dark cloak and thundering down the halls.

You reflexively take a step back. “C-Commander Ren?” But even that sounds so foreign in your mouth, so when he turns to you you try again- “Kylo…?”

“Y/N.”

So many things are flitting through your mind it’s hard to pin down a single thought. This is Commander Kylo Ren, in nothing but a sleep shirt and pants. Kylo Ren negated your medical leave and called you to his quarters. Kylo Ren is very tall, has dark curly hair, brown eyes, and a razor jaw. Kylo Ren is inside your head. You feel more comfortable calling him Kylo than Commander Ren. “You’re in my head? How? Why-?”

“I don’t know!” He begins to pace, and in his movements you can easily see the imposing Commander who stalks the corridors every day. You can imagine his mask over his face and his hands fisted in leather gloves- he’s definitely one in the same. “Ever since the explosion-” his eyes go a bit wild- “I could sense the moment it happened; the moment _before_ it happened… the spark caught fire.”

You grunt, still in disbelief. “I know. I was there.”

“I couldn’t stop it. I got there as soon as I could, but everything was in flames- you were already-”

“Stop it?” You shake your head. “It was an accident. I’m an engineer, shit happens. This is-” you grimace a bit, trying to subtly roll your shoulder- “a little more critical than most, admittedly. I don’t even know why you’d be on the flight deck, unless-”

“Stop it.” He’s close enough now that you can pick out the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his gait, the furrow in his brow. Any arguments you have die on your tongue. “You’re in pain. I can’t stand it.”

“I-” You have absolutely no idea what to do with this information. The intimidating Jedi Killer who terrifies everyone- except for you- day in and day out, the one whose name is infamous across the galaxy and whose turn of mood could send any stormtrooper running- knows your name? And cares _?_ He knew you were hurt and he came running.

“I can help.”

You shake your head, trying to dispel your confusion. “You can what? How?”

“I can help,” he repeats, so insistent you can’t help but listen to him. “I can make you- I can _let_ you sleep.”

“You-” oh. _Oh._ Your eyes widen just a bit. “With the…?” You drag a hand through the air, a poor imitation of what you’ve seen him do when he uses the Force. To you, it’s basically fairy tales, bedtime stories of heroes and villains from your childhood. You’ve never seen it up close. You’ve never even really considered that the man you sometimes try to chat with casually in the hallway probably has more power in one finger than you ever will. The man who’s standing in front of you right now. Who can feel that you’re hurting.

That earns you just a hint of a smile. It tugs on the corner of his lips. You’re surprised at how much it softens his face and rearranges him into something more human. “Yes. With that.”

“Will it hurt?”

“No! I would- I would never do anything to hurt you. It would be just like-”

“-falling asleep,” you finish. Your head tilts to the side, considering this strange new promise, but the movement sends a ripple of pain down your spine and you almost start to tear up. Stars, you’re tired. You’re so tired. And you want to not hurt, to not be in pain. You just want to _stop._ But… “why are you helping me?”

Now he ducks his head, avoiding both your gaze and your query. “You- helped me, as well. I won’t be indebted to anyone.”

There’s so many unsaid things hanging on the end of his sentence. You can’t tell if they’re malicious or not. You suppose if he wanted to hit you, he’s had plenty of opportunity before now. Things can’t get any worse. “Okay.”

He almost seems surprised. “Okay?”

You nod. “What’s going to happen?”

“It’ll be just like this.” He touches his pointer and middle finger against his temple. “Nothing more.”

You glance down at where the two of you stand in the center of the room. “Should I sit…?”

He holds out a hand and you take it. Leads you to the bed, where you sit on the edge. He must see the anxiety in your eyes, because to your surprise, he actually kneels in front of you so he can meet your gaze. “I promise- I _swear._ I won’t hurt you.”

“I believe you,” you whisper, and as the words leave your mouth you realize you do.

He doesn’t let go of your hand, and lets the other wander up to your cheek- slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook a wounded animal. His thumb brushes some hair behind your ear, and you find yourself holding your breath. You aren’t sure about this. About any of this. But if it means it could stop, even for just an hour-

The sensation is akin to floating underwater- everything is muted and heavy, the light refracting into something softer than moonlight. It’s blessedly cool, better than any balm concocted in medical. For the first time, your scars don’t feel as though they’re still aflame. You want to sob with relief. Briefly, you realize that you have no way to ensure you don’t land in a heap on the floor, but just before the water envelops you- there’s a voice. It’s calm and reassuring and strangely familiar- and you realize it must be Kylo. _Don’t worry. I’ll catch you._


End file.
